


Cane Sugar

by Idioprat



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Abuse, Bullying, Homeschooling, M/M, Trans Male Character, aaron doesn’t give a shit, alexander has insomnia, and washington’s managing it all, eventually, first work in this fandom, hercules hates being home, i haven’t slept in 3 years, is that what it’s called?, james is just trying, lafayette is too sweet, lot of french, neither has alexander, not from washington bc he’s a good dad, poor john has trust issues, regular schooling, thomas is way too overprotective
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-03 13:43:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13342461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idioprat/pseuds/Idioprat
Summary: Integrating into a new environment and staying out of trouble when everyone's as fucked up as you are is a lot harder than John thought it would be.But maybe being around his own kind is just what he needed.





	1. all powerful and pained

**Author's Note:**

> Alright let’s get this started. 
> 
> I was inspired to write again after I read a really REALLY good piece. I haven’t written in a few years, so this fic is subject to style changes and random updates.

The cold and unforgiving alley concrete, the 3:00am city silence, and most of all, the freedom. Maybe John had romanticized it beyond normality, but living on the streets had a certain charm to it.

No, not a charm. A feel. A certain feel that John didn’t think he could ever grow to forget.

He let his head loll to the side as the dense forest scenery around him morphed into an suburban neighborhood. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t looking forward to this at all. A place to actually go home to, to live in, sounded pretty good, but he was going in blind. He didn’t know what to expect from a foster home, and he knew expecting the best was naive. He wasn’t so sure about expecting the worst.

The only ideas he had were derived from horror stories by foster kids he’d met on the streets. The majority had ran from theirs, while a couple had aged out and just failed to get on their feet.

“We’re here,” the officer sighed. John shoved the thoughts in the back of his mind, keeping them alive but not present, and took in the view.

An exhale of awe slipped out from his lips. The house was a beautiful white, a stark contrast from the other dim houses on the street, and nearly the size of his father’s place. His face fell to a grimace at the thought. Hopefully that’s the only thing they had in common.

He swung open the car door and stepped out, his awe no longer present. The officer was already in the trunk of the car, digging his bag out.

That’s all he had. A backpack filled with everything he was lucky enough to grab from his father’s house; his phone, long dead because he forgot the charger, a couple changes of clothes, and a handful of pencils along with his two sketchbooks.

The first sketchbook, worn and tattered, was from when he lived with is mother, and as his life became more and more unbearable, it manifested into pencil on paper; the book filled up fast after he moved in with his father, but the second one still remained blank.

They were one of the only ways he passed the time and avoided trouble with his father in the beginning, but they eventually became useless. He had ceased feeling anything substantial enough to put on the paper, so he stopped all together.

“Here.” The officer closed the trunk and handed him his bag with a small smile. “I don’t know much about foster homes, but try your best to adjust.” John only nodded.  
The officer was nice enough, but he never bothered to learn her name.

She walked him to the door and rang the doorbell.

The concrete steps looked recently swept and the doorway was free of dust and cobwebs that usually hung in corners. It had been a few months since John last took an actual shower, and the cleanliness around him was almost suffocating.

The door opened and a dark man loomed over the both of them. “Are you John Laurens?” John nodded slowly.

The officer patted him on the back and John swallowed roughly. “This is George Washington. He’s your foster father.”

Washington held out a hand. “Nice to meet you.”

John hesitated before taking it and giving it a good shake. It was firm and intimidating to say the least.

“Take care of him and call this number if he causes any problems,” the cop said, then turned to John, “I better not see you again.”

She left and that was that. He was just dropped off on the doorstep like a package.

Once she was out of earshot, both Washington and John sighed.

”Alright, how about you come in and get yourself cleaned up.“

John stepped in and took a short time looking around. The inside was pretty average and dare he say, homey. The wooden floor gleamed at him and he slipped off his shoes, placing them by the front door. He didn’t want to dirty anything.

“Who else lives here?” The question slipped from his mouth. “S-Sorry.” That one slipped from his mouth too, a habit he acquired living with his father.

Washington ignored the apology and simply replied, “There are five other boys.” John bit the inside of his cheek. He was really hoping for the best at this place, but he kept pulling up the worst.

“Your room is up the stairs and in the second hallway, second door on the left. Ask Alexander for some clothes, his room is first on the left.“

“Okay,” John said, fiddling with his backpack straps as he walked towards to stairs.

“There’s a shower in your room, so go ahead and wash up and you can meet the others when you’re ready, alright?”

A shower... John focused on that particular aspect. His grip tightened around the straps of his backpack as he felt Washington’s gaze follow him up the stairs and to Alexander’s door. His hand stalled for a couple seconds over the wood before he knocked. Right as his knuckle came in contact with the door, it creaked opened and a head peered out. John took a quick step back.

“Sorry, I heard you coming up the steps. I’m Alexander Hamilton. You must be John, right?”

John nodded, in slight shock at the boy in front of him. When he heard there were others in the house he was expecting more... rough and less... pretty.

Alexander’s hair was tied back in a ponytail, yet he didn’t seem to mind that some of it streamed out in front of his eyes. His soft smile couldn’t be a day over 16 or 17, but upon closer look, there was a distinct gleam in his brown eyes that set him apart from the average teenager. Something about this guy irked John, but he couldn’t help to think he was attractive nonetheless.

“I was sent up here to get clothes,” John muttered.

“Oh, hold on.” Alexander made his way to his closet and started rummaging around.

His room was a complete mess. There were papers scattered about his bed with a trail leading to his desk and clothes thrown all over. The bed itself was the only immaculate thing in the room, covers unruffled and a pillow placed delicately right in the center. It looked out of place, almost unused.

“Come here for a second,” Alexander suddenly called.

“Why?”

“I can’t tell what your size is.”

John didn’t trust him enough to step foot in his room, and he would have just answered, but he didn’t know his size either. He instead remained lingering in the doorway, shifting his weight between his feet. “It doesn’t matter.”

Alexander noted his continuing hesitance with a knowing frown. “I won’t hurt you. Nobody here will.”

He clenched his hands around his backpack straps and gave in, shuffling in towards Alexander. “How do you know?”

Alexander pulled a shirt from its hanger. “I was the first one here and nobody’s hit me yet.” He brought a shirt over to John and held it up, judging his size. “Well, aside from Jefferson. He’s an asshole... well and Burr. But I started that one.”

John ran the names over his tongue as Alexander handed him a stack of clothes.

“Oh, thanks. I’ll return them-“

“Don’t worry about it. You’ll put them to better use.”

John muttered another thanks and turned to leave.

“Hey,” Alexander called, “You can trust Washington. He’s not one of the bad ones.”

John only smiled softly in response. He closed Alexander’s door and wiped the smile from his face. What the other kids said to him on the streets resonated in his mind; accepting a foreign place so readily would just lead to disappointment.

He sighed and headed to his room, hoping the upcoming shower could clear his head both figuratively and literally.


	2. high praises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John... meets... some of the other boys.

After one of the longest showers of his life, John dressed in Alexander’s clothes, tied his damp hair up, and immediately face-planted on a bed. _His_ bed. He had completely forgotten what it was like to lay in a bed, to sink into the mattress and have it swallow you. It was beyond soft, almost unrealistic. Alexander’s clothes only extended this comfort. Though it was all oversized, they surrounded him with a soothing warmth. It was strange. He felt... safe.

John sighed and sat up, deciding to put his mind to something else. He located his bag and took the phone from it, attempting to turn it on as if he didn’t know it had died months ago. It was nothing but a black brick now, but John didn’t want to bother Alexander again and ask for a phone charger. He could ask Washington, but was he even allowed to have a phone here?

“Hey,” a gruff voice sounded from John’s door. Instantly, he hid the phone behind his back. The owner of the voice, a man with a head of bustling black curls, was leant against the doorway with his arms crossed.

“Who are you?” John demanded.

“I‘m here to ask you the same thing.” His voice was heavy, commanding, with a slight southern drawl. “My name is Thomas Jefferson. Call me Jefferson.”

John was rooted in his spot, suppressing a reaction. Jefferson was one of the names he made sure to remember from his chat with Alexander. The guy didn’t fit the violent and ragged image John drew initially, but he was just as intimidating as anticipated. “John. John Laurens.”

The tense silence that cocooned the room afterwards was quickly expelled by Jefferson, who stepped in and shut the door behind him.

“I saw you get out the back of that cop car.”

John gulped. “And what of it?”

“What did you do?” He asked, the demanding undertone making John’s blood run cold.

“Does it matter?” John tested.

“I think it does.”

“Well it’s none of your business.”

That struck a nerve in Thomas, whose face contorted into a snarl. “You’re unnecessarily audacious, just like Alexander,” he growled, stepping forward. A barrage of knocks sounded on the door, possibly saving John’s ass, and Jefferson sighed as a muffled voice spoke.

“Thomas, il n'y a pas besoin de le harceler.”

“Je suis juste de poser des questions.”

“Non, vous êtes l'intimider. Permettez-moi de dan.”

Jefferson clicked his tongue in annoyance and opened the door to reveal an older boy. After exchanging glares with Jefferson, he shouldered past him and towards John.

“My brother’s just trying to intimidate you. Don’t take him seriously.”

Jefferson rolled his eyes. “C'est pour ta sécurité.”

He held his hand out to shake, ignoring Jefferson. “Anyways, I’m Lafayette. Or Laf.”

A formal handshake after Jefferson’s failed attempt at an introduction was off-putting. We’re these two really brothers?

“I’m John.” He carefully slid his phone into the back pocket of his sweatpants and took Lafayette’s hand. Lafayette then turned to Jefferson. “Voyez, c'est comme ça que vous devriez vous présenter.”

“Laf, tu ne comprends pas-“

“Essaie-moi.” They exchanged glares again before Jefferson stormed out of the room with a huff. Lafayette made his way after him while shouting in French. John was left behind, stunned. Foreign language aside, the whole interaction made his head spin.

“I don’t think I’ve seen Thomas that riled up in a while.” A new face appeared in the doorway and John sighed, exasperated by the sheer presence of these people.

“Hey, I‘m only here to introduce myself then leave. I’m James Madison. I already know you’re John, no need for formalities.”

John was relieved at the fact there was someone here, besides Alexander, who seemed rational enough to hold a conversation with. If he was going to get information, then it ought to be from someone with at least a sliver of composition. “Wait. Why are they speaking French?”

“Oh, Thomas and Laf are from France; born there actually. Sometimes they just switch back and forth. Habit, I guess.” James sighed and leaned against the door the same way Jefferson did. “Don’t tell me you know French too.“

“I don’t.”

“Good. Sorry about Thomas, by the way. He’s never taken kindly to new kids.”

“Thomas? Why do you call him Thomas?”

James stiffened and the semi-light atmosphere sunk a couple inches. “I guess I just... always have.” John furrowed his eyebrows, but said nothing. “Anyways, I’ll get going. It’s dinner time. Don’t let Thomas get under your skin, it’s his specialty.”

John only nodded as James left. He moved his phone to his desk drawer and put the need for a phone charger aside as hunger hit him full force. He hadn’t had an actual meal in months.

He peaked his head out the door and made his way down the stairs. The bustling of a crowd in the dining room drew John over.

“Oh, John, go ahead and grab some food,” Washington called, standing over the table. John scanned the chairs for a seat and eventually settled on the end next to Alexander, who was piling everything on his plate. There was someone sitting across from him whom he hadn’t met yet.

“Rough time already?” Alexander asked abruptly. “Jefferson and Lafayette were just arguing about you.”

“What were they saying?”

“Nothing substantial, though Jefferson mentioned you crawling out of a cop car.”

“Crawling? Not quite, but I guess it wasn’t the best first impression. He locked himself in my room.”

“He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“No, Lafayette barged in and he left. He did look like he wanted to kill me.”

Alexander sighed and muttered one last thing before stuffing his mouth. “Jefferson’s just being overprotective like always.”

The conversations around the table died out, replaced by the clang of forks and spoons. John remembered what he was down there for and grabbed a plate, piling on anything edible he laid eyes on. Noting the smacking of lips around the table, it seemed that they didn’t say grace before eating, something that put John at ease. The less this was like living at his father’s place, the better.

By the time he had settled down, the smell had become irresistible. Shoving one roll in his mouth quickly turned into shoving two, and shoving two quickly turned into smashing five. He paused and took a drink of water, catching his breath. His eyes locked on the cheeseburgers. Fuck, he hadn’t had food like this in forever.

Everyone at the table shot him looks; mixes of amazement, disgust, and sympathy; as he downed a whole cheeseburger. John‘s attention was loyal to his food, the consumer slowly becoming the one being consumed.

“Slow down son, or you’ll choke.”  
  
John looked up at Washington with an involuntary pained expression, neither saying anything as John simply snapped his head back down to his food and forced himself to eat with a little more control. Jefferson’s chair scraped against the floor abruptly as he stood and brought his plate to the kitchen. He stomped up the stairs unceremoniously, which prompted James and Lafayette to hurry their eating and follow shortly after.

Besides Washington’s sigh, Jefferson’s foul mood was relatively ignored. The boy John hadn’t met yet was next to leave, and after Alexander cleared his plate, he trailed up the stairs as well. Washington finished minutes after, but stayed in his chair, observing John with a steady gaze.

“You shouldn’t eat too much. Food will still be here for you in the morning, I promise.”

John looked up from his plate, the second time in half an hour, and met Washington with narrowed eyes.

“I don’t restrict food in this house. Now’s an exception because I’m worried for your health.”

He finished chewing and set his third cheeseburger down tentatively. “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for, son.”

John stood and took his plate to the kitchen.

“I’ve got it,” Washington said, following and taking the plate from his hands.

“I don’t have to help?”

“No, I’ve got it. James usually pitches in, but he’s tending to Thomas.”

“More reason why I should help.”

“Go get some rest, son.”

John couldn’t tell if it was a command or a suggestion, but he treated it all the same. He made his way up the stairs and to his room, flopping down on his bed with a deep sigh.

What a fucking day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is only the second chapter yet school’s already kicking my ass and taking up my time. I’ll publish more whenever I can reserve some brain power to put some decent words on paper.


	3. where’s my mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John’s having a really rough time but ya can’t blame him.

John didn’t remember when his eyes had closed, but was 3:14am when they fluttered back open. He turned to the supplied alarm clock on his desk and groaned, its red glare mocking him. The house was eerily silent, the kind of silent where you could hear all the blood pumping through your body. He tossed and turned, trying to get back to sleep, but it was pointless; his brain had already booted up and was running full speed.

John dug his backpack out from under his bed and fumbled with one of the blank sketchbook, bored. He flipped at it for a few seconds, admiring its pages and their empty space. The edges were torn and yellowed from rolling around in his bag, but the center was clean and calling to him. 

He had always regarded his sketchbook as a portal of sorts. It was kind of childish, but it made him feel safe, like he could just create another world where nobody could hurt him.

With a sigh, John pulled out a dull, snapped in half, but usable pencil, and sat at his desk. Starting was always the hardest part. For a good few minutes he just dug the lead in the into corner of the first page, unsure of what to really do and how to really do it. It had been a while, after all.

With a tentative hand, he wisped a line or two across the page, connecting them ever so often, creating scratchy shapes and bodies. He himself wasn’t sure what he was drawing, but as soon as something came to mind, it ended up on paper. Abruptly, his door swung open, snapping John back to reality as slammed his sketchbook shut. Alexander shuffled into his room with a look of confusion.

“Oh shit, were you busy? I should’ve knocked.” 

“N-No, it’s fine.”

“How long have you been up?”

John looked around, the early morning light streaming across his room. His clock read 7:41am. “A few hours, I guess.”

“Well, I came to tell you breakfast is downstairs. If you want it.”

Despite really wanting to get back to drawing, John also wanted to see if Washington was serious when he said there’d still be food for him. 

“Alright, I’ll come,” he said, his shoulders cracking as he stretched. He shoved everything into his drawer and rolled his wrist around a couple times, attempting to dull its ache. Alexander watched on with dark, curious eyes. 

“Were you writing? I write too.”

“I draw,” John corrected as he followed Alexander out his door and down to the hallway. “Haven’t in a while, but I couldn’t sleep.” 

“Yeah, I get it. When I’m facing insomnia, I always find myself picking up a pencil. Typing’s insufficient when I’m really trying to bring out the best words.”

“What do you write?”

His hands fell and a strange expression crossed his face. “What do you draw?” he countered dryly.

John opened his mouth to answer but struggled to pull out anything. He realized that was the point. He didn’t quite understand how writing could be personal, but it didn’t seem like Alexander was willing to explain.

They joined the others at the table, John surprised that Washington really was a man of his word as various smells floated through the air.

“Alright,” Lafayette chimed, piercing through everyone’s tired mood with his cheer as he placed a bowl of steaming scrambled eggs on the table. “Dig in!”

Everyone began grabbing for food like it was life or death and John found himself drawn into the chaos, fighting Alexander off with a fork over the eggs. Lafayette couldn’t help watch with a hint of amusement. “You two act like children. I can cook more if needed.”

John laid down his weapon of choice, leaving Alexander to the spoils. “You made this? All of this?”

“Well, yes. I help with cooking whenever I can.”

“Oh, thank you, it looks really great.” 

“Merci,” Lafayette responded with a bright smile and took a seat, leaving a space between him and James. In fact, James looked awfully out of place, surrounded by empty seats on both sides.

“Where’s Thomas?” Washington asked, taking notice as well.

“He‘s in his room, says he doesn’t feel good,” James replied, expression unreadable. “I’ll bring some food up to him later.”

Washington only nodded. John noticed there was still someone missing, the guy who had sat across from him at dinner, but nobody made a move to mention it. He didn’t bother to either.

The rest of breakfast was quiet, but not the light and comfortable kind. John had a suspicion that his presence was the cause so he finished first, telling the half-lie that he wasn’t that hungry before going back to his room. He managed to avoid all human interaction for a full hour before, despite his better judgement, he somehow found himself in Alexander’s room with his phone in hand. 

Alexander sat at his desk with a pencil behind his ear and another one twiddling between his fingers, his hair strung about. “What’s up?” he asked.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a phone charger would you?”

“A phone?” His eyes fell to John’s hand. “What kind is it?”

“iPhone.”

He shot John a skeptical look before rummaging through his desk drawer and tossing a bundle of wires to John. The phone was a newer model, only a year old, which further piqued Alexander’s interest.

“How’d you get your hands on a phone like that?”

“My-My father gave it to me.”

Alexander opened his mouth to say something but held his tongue, taking note of the heavy air in the room. John had sunk into himself, his hands trembling as he fumbled with the wire and his eyes glazed over, cast to the floor.

“Sorry,” Alexander said. “Didn’t mean to bring back bad memories.” There was a touch of sympathy, no, empathy woven through his words.

John clenched and unclenched his hands. “N-No, it’s fine. I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m-It’s stupid.” He took a deep breath, trying to steady his words.

“Are you o—” Alexander made a move to stand, but John quickly took a step back and interjected.

“Thanks for the charger, but I gotta get back to drawing,” he said, voice strained

Alexander sighed and smiled softly, knowing better than to push. “No problem.”

**Author's Note:**

> I used Google Translate for the French, and I can almost guarantee the grammar isn’t correct, so feel free to correct it!


End file.
